


Imagine: Your attempt to make Castiel jealous leads to a heart-to-heart about shared insecurities that brings you closer together.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [31]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Happy Ending, Humor, Insecurity, Protective Sam Winchester, Romantic Fluff, Suggestive Themes, Winchester Sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 00:58:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13939158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Sister!Winchester Reader





	Imagine: Your attempt to make Castiel jealous leads to a heart-to-heart about shared insecurities that brings you closer together.

You scrutinize the gorgeous chick staring back at you in the uneven flicker of fluorescent light illuminating the powder room mirror. A hint of skepticism lines a dewy complexion – highlighted and contoured features accentuated by a flirty yet sophisticated up-do as she bites the inside of her cheek. Tugging and tucking here and there, shimmying sideways to see every angle, her fingers fidget with the fabric of a low-cut dress sensually skimming all the right curves.

Sans the Winchester family requisite flannelled attire and forgoing the usual minimalist, if any, effort put into your hair and makeup in favor of an artificial, but nonetheless flattering, color palette and a newly purchased outfit, you barely recognize your reflection. And that’s precisely the point. Exhaling a pleased hum at achieving the effect you envisioned, you grumble a curse at the unforgiving pinch of heels constricting your feet in all the wrong places and yank open the door.

You smash headlong into a barrage of odor and noise – the skunky smell of stale beer, drunken communal sweat, and bass thrum of music smacks your senses. It’s a palpable improvement over the dank aroma of mildew perforating the air of the bar bathroom. Confidence sky high, grinning in satisfaction, you catch the eager eye of more than one patron as you saunter a sultry path toward a corner booth where both of your brothers have taken up residence.

A slim brown-eyed stranger in a flawless fitted suit who is one hundred percent the opposite of your type whistles low in appreciation as you brush past him. Fingertips catching at your wrist to halt your march, he leans a little too close, liquor laced breath fanning your neck and making your hair stand on end, “Hey there beautiful. Let me buy you a drink.”

You smile and can’t help the flush of heat tinting your cheeks at his praise. This is going to be _too easy_. Normally you despise unsolicited attention; tonight you’re making an exception. Tonight you’re screaming for it cause tonight you’ve got revenge on your mind. You’re planning to show Castiel just how jealous it makes you feel – how much it makes your skin crawl with envy – when he plays the naivety card and lets other women flirt with him under the guise of being a well-mannered gent. Sure, the arousing aftermath of your annoyance with the angel is literal bliss for both of you, but as far as you’re concerned enough is enough and turnabout is fair play. However, your plan _doesn’t_ include actually acquiescing to anyone’s advances – your heart belongs to that infuriatingly adorable angel and this guy shrieks skeevy. “No thanks, I’m with someone,” you politely decline.

The suited stranger has the kind of brazen self-assured insistence characteristic of the borderline inebriated. “You’re so _divine_ you must be an angel,” he tries again.

The cheesy and disconcertingly close to home pick-up line makes you cringe. “No, I’m really _not_ , but my boyfriend is – and if I don’t beat him to it he will smite your intoxicated ass if you don’t get your paws off me. _Now_.” You shake his sticky fingers from your skin.

Holding up his shunted palm in surrender, he feigns a disappointed frown and watches you walk away.

Not for naught aptly nicknamed _squirrel_ , the hyper-vigilant Dean spies you first. Mouth puckering, he nearly chokes on his beer, sputtering, “Woah, you look-”

“Nice!” Sam screeches, stopping Dean from uttering a remark that would surely test the limits of socially accepted sibling affection and only serve to embarrass, if not Dean, then definitely you and Sam, “really, uh, _nice_.” He strains a smile. What he really wants to do is wrap his coat around your scantily clad figure and ban any man in the room from thinking about what mischief they could do if they got you alone.

Wiping his booze splashed chin with the back of his sleeve, Dean scowls at the verbal subterfuge.

“Nice?” you pout and plant a hand on your seductively jutted hip. “Holding the door open for someone is _nice_. Ganking a demon clean through the heart on the first stab is _nice_. Extra bacon on a cheeseburger is _nice_. I was going for-”

“Sexy?” Dean supplies, quirking a brow, electing to ignore Sam in favor of bolstering your self-esteem. “Hey, if you weren’t my sister I’d totally-”

“Buy her flowers and take her to dinner at a classy restaurant?” Sam grits through his teeth. He sharply kicks Dean’s shin under the table.

“Yeah, that too.” Dean winces at the sucker shot, smirk enduring despite the pain smarting his leg.

“Dude, gross!” Sam snarls in revulsion.

“You’re disgusting,” you chuckle, reaching out to ruffle Dean’s hair, grateful for his honest, if entirely awkward, assessment, “don’t ever change.”

“And _that_ is why I’m her favorite big brother,” Dean gloats.

“You’re so _not_ her favorite,” Sam snorts.

“Am too,” Dean argues. “Isn’t that right sis?”

Sam scoffs. “You’re just the biggest _jerk_.”

“Cool it, assbutts,” you scold, pilfering your angel’s adorable insult.

Unwilling to cede the last word, Dean mouths a silent _bitch_ in Sam’s direction.

Sam’s hazel eyes revolve in physical retort.

Glancing at the screen of your phone you wonder aloud. “Where’s Cas anyway? He was supposed to be here like 15 minutes ago.”

Sam clears his throat. The harshness is over-the-top and therefore suspect.

Peering up from your cell, you squint at him, eyes glinting with curiosity over what he’s not saying.

Dean coughs, “Uh-”

“Uh?” you ask, shifting your regard to his greens when he fails to elaborate.

“He left,” Sam offers with a shrug before you panic.

“Left?” Your confident stature shrinks. “Where? Why?”

“Dunno, he came in a few minutes ago and got that weird look on his face. You know the one-” Dean circles a finger around his chiseled features and attempts to mime Castiel’s confused countenance.

You can’t decide whether he succeeds more in appearing severely constipated or mildly deranged. It’s probably some combination of both. Either way, he’s not winning an Oscar for the performance.

“Then, _bam_!” Dean claps his palms to the table. “He bolted.”

Sam shakes his head at Dean’s less than helpful elaboration, adding, “He didn’t say, but his truck is still in the lot.” He points out the dingy window at the angel’s rust and tan excuse for transportation.

“Thanks, Sammy. You’re my _fave_.” You target the exit in hunt for your angel.

Dean’s wounded mien in the wake of your fluctuating declaration of brotherly favoritism is at the very least deserving of a daytime Emmy award.

You find the sulking seraph hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, jaw perched in his hands a la Hamlet lamenting about Yorick, on a bench outside the front door. The air out here is corrupted by a faint mixture of asphalt and tobacco and yet decidedly refreshing in coolness compared to the stuffy atmosphere of the bar. The temperature, too, is invigorating without being goose bump-provoking cold. You fill your lungs to bursting with the stuff before speaking. Well, as much as you’re able to without popping the seams of your dress. “Hey, angel.”

“Hello.” Only his blues drift to peer at you – a somber sea.

“What are you doing out here?” You settle on the vacant space of slats beside him. Slithering nearer to bump his shoulder with yours and nudge his knee, you jest, “And don’t you dare say _sitting on a bench_.”

He smiles one of those rare small numbers that never fails to catch you off guard with its purity. Shoving off his knees, he straightens up and squares his shoulders. “Waiting for you,” he professes, throat and tongue grinding out the words like gravel crushed in a mortar and pestle. Leaning over, he presses a chaste kiss your cheek, soft pink lips lingering warm against your skin.

A flutter of butterflies takes wing in your stomach and threatens to raise you skyward in a whoosh of giddiness. You grab the angel’s hand, flexing your fingers through his to stay grounded. “What do you think?” You gesture down at your fashionable ensemble with your free hand.

Tender kiss unfastening from your flesh, he furrows his brow. Following the rippling movement of your fingers indicating yourself as a whole, he remains flummoxed. “About what?”

You exhale an airy laugh, corners of your mouth gliding into an easy smile. “The current political climate. Snow leopards being taken off the endangered species list. _Them apples_. What do you mean, _about what_?” you tease, it’s not as though you dress up like this every day. Or, you know, _ever_. At all. You actually can’t really recall with any specificity the last time you wore a dress. This is an occasion of note and certainly he has made some kind of note.

His forehead unknots itself, flattening in a dawning stretch of comprehension. “Oh, you’re referring to your clothing.” He looks again, stammering to give meaning to something evidently of import to you but to which he has never really given any extant thought. “It’s a, uh, a lovely dress. The fabric seems…very flexible.”

“Flexible? Is that all?” you sneer in disbelief. It doesn’t occur to you that to him, as an angel, clothing exists in terms of fig leaf functionality and yours seems to be performing adequately based on this biblical standard of reference.

He sweeps his fingertips across your thigh, adding assertively, “And soft. It must be quite comfortable.”

“What about the makeup and…and my hair. Don’t you think I look _nice_?”

Blues shining, he hooks a finger beneath your chin. “Y/N, in my judgement you are my Father’s most exquisite creation. You are ravishing. Tonight is no exception.”

You have to admit it’s a pretty great comeback. Who the fuck cares about clothes anyway when you could be, _well_ …his name lilts off your tongue in an enraptured gasp, “Castiel-”

“Y/N, I’m-” He averts his guilt glazed gaze from the brilliant flare of your soul yearning for him. He only told you half the truth when he said he was out here waiting for you. The balance weighs heavy on his conscience. “I’m out here because I don’t deserve you,” he confesses.

“Don’t say that, of course you do.” Your fingertips scrape at his scruff, compelling him to meet your searching gape. “Cas, why would you even think that?”

He struggles to avoid your imploring gaze, pain casting shadows over his aspect. “That man inside, when I saw him touch you, I-”

“He’s no one. Just some creep offering to buy me a drink.” Your fingers descend to clutch at the lapels of his trench coat as he tries to distance himself from you.

“Regardless, seeing you like that I realized a man like him, a _human_ , he could offer you more comfort and safety than I ever could. A chance at a normal life. I’m-”

“Angel, I don’t want normal. I _want_ you. I love _you_.” Tears prick your eyes. Your knuckles are white where they fist bunches of tan fabric. Your voice quivers, threatening to crack into a sob. “ _This_ …playing at dress-up, trying to make you feel as jealous as I do when I see other people flirting with you. It was a childish idea. All I managed to do was hurt you. I’m so sorry-”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He clasps his palms over your trembling hands, reassuring, “Y/N, you didn’t do anything wrong. You could never-”

“But I did,” you blubber, collapsing against him and burying your face into his chest. “All because I can’t get over this ridiculous jealousy.”

Arms tangling to hold you close, he lets you sink into him, to breath in his scent until your nerves calm. Kissing the top of your head, he whispers into your hair, “Can I tell you something?”

In answer, you hum and nod against him.

Running a hand up and down your back, the rough pads of his fingers tickle your skin. Voice rasping and sincere, he reveals, “You know, I like it when you get jealous. The ferocity of your love in those moments – I almost believe you need me then as much as I need you.”

You incline to look up into his eyes, sniffling, “Can I tell _you_ something, angel?”

“Of course, you know you can tell me anything.” He sweeps the streaks of mascara-tarnished tears staining your cheeks with a gentle thumb.

“I only get jealous because I’m afraid someday you’ll figure out _you_ can do better than _me_.”

The affectionate flux of his lips to yours assures you he has done the math, taken into account all the variables, and determined the probability of that happening calculates out to be _never_.


End file.
